


Eleventh Hour

by St_Salieri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: hoodie_time, Episode: s02e01 In My Time of Dying, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/St_Salieri/pseuds/St_Salieri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Winchester knows what he has to do.  He just wishes his sons would understand it.  Takes place during <i>In My Time of Dying</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eleventh Hour

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a [prompt](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/393050.html?thread=5152858#t5152858) that [](http://turquoisetumult.livejournal.com/profile)[**turquoisetumult**](http://turquoisetumult.livejournal.com/) made over at [](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/)**hoodie_time**.

 

The chair scrapes the worn linoleum as John drags it closer to the bed and sits in a slow-motion collapse. The move shifts his sling and jars his broken collarbone, but the pain is mostly a distant ache right now. He doesn't so much as wince.

He can't look too closely at the face of the figure on the bed - not now, not yet. That would make it real. Instead he focuses on an arm lying limp against the thin blanket, the plastic ID bracelet around the wrist, the tangled IV line. Someone has made an attempt to clean the blood off Dean's hand, but brown rust still lingers under the fingernails.

They've been here before, of course. You can't live the life they live and avoid hospitals entirely. A broken arm here, some bruised ribs there, and a little insurance fraud to tie it all up until they can sneak off into the night with enough painkillers to tide them over until the next time.

It's never been quite this bad before.

He finally raises his eyes to look at his son's face, and his breath catches at the sight of the breathing tube tied in place. The artificiality of the molded plastic against Dean's skin is a perversity, and he resists the sudden urge to rip it away. Instead he reaches out with his free hand and awkwardly smooths Dean's hair back from his forehead. It lays limp and greasy against his skull, and John cards his fingers through it before releasing Dean and sitting back in the chair.

"Hey there, kiddo," he whispers.

The beep of the monitors and whoosh of the ventilator is a soft counterpoint to the background noise of the hospital he can hear through the closed door. It makes it impossible for him to pretend that Dean is just resting, maybe sleeping off the effects of a good night spent celebrating the end of a particularly nasty hunt.

They haven't had a chance to do that in a while, not since Dean found his younger brother again. And if that just isn't the saving grace of this whole sorry mess they're all in, seeing his boys back together where they belong. John knows it isn't all good, that he may have finally pushed them to the breaking point. He can taste Sam's anger in the back of his throat, like a layer of ash in the air that heralds a volcanic explosion. Years of hurt lie between them, old misunderstandings that festered and never had a chance to heal. They're too much alike, he and Sam, quick to anger and too slow to forgive. And Dean....

John knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if he loses Dean here in this hospital, he'll have lost Sam for good as well.

The beeping of the monitors falls out of rhythm for a second, and John's heart nearly stops. He doesn't breathe for a long moment, but nothing happens. Dean isn't waking up, but for the moment he's not going anywhere. The feeding tube snaking across his cheek looks goddamn uncomfortable, the way the medical tape pulls at his nose. John's hands itch to reach out and refasten it, but he can't bring himself to touch any of the equipment in a superstitious _justincase_.

It doesn't really matter. He doesn't think Dean can feel it anyway.

"Look at you," he says instead, voice hoarse. "You need a shave, buddy. Starting to look like your old man here."

His words fall dead into the empty quietness of the room. Dean lies as still as ever, the rise and fall of his chest barely visible. The sheet and blanket already lie flat, but John creases the corners and smooths them down again and again, just to have something to do. He rests his palm on Dean's chest for a moment but doesn't let himself linger, mindful of broken ribs and internal bleeding. It helps, though, getting to feel his son's heartbeat.

He's not used to Dean being so fragile.

The room is too damn cold, like every hospital room in the history of the western world, and John shivers and reaches across to tug Dean's blanket a little higher. There's so much he needs to say before Sam gets back, but he doesn't know where to start. He's suddenly conscious of the weight of the air around him, heavy with the memories of those who have died in this room over the years. He's no Missouri - _you're no Sam either_ , and he immediately shuts down the part of his brain that whispers that - but he wonders if those old ghosts would have something to say to him, if they could. They probably would - ghosts usually do. Something about "I'm sorry," or "Please help me," some irrational cry of pain or rage from a soul too damaged to let itself move on.

_What the hell kind of father are you?_

Or maybe that. Yeah. That one sounds about right.

He freezes in place, gripped by the feeling that he'd be able to see those angry ghosts if he just looked up. But the moment passes and he feels his shoulders relax, and again it's just him alone in the room with his dying son. The chair is starting to become uncomfortable, but he doesn't so much as shift his weight. It's his penance for missing his chance to sit at Dean's bedside all those months ago when his oldest boy was last in a hospital. He'd listened to Sam's messages over and over - the first few scared and pleading, the last full of righteous anger - and wished it was safe enough for him to be there. But it wasn't, and he knows that neither of them have really forgiven him for it.

As if a switch has been thrown, the guilt shifts rapidly to anger. Anger at himself, anger at the fucking monster of a demon that destroyed his family, even - God help him - anger at his sons. They don't understand. Dean says that he does, but he's been too well trained - by his old man to see the bigger picture, by himself to play the peacemaker. He doesn't get it, not on a gut level They think him callous, abandoning his family to chase a nightmare. If they only knew how close he was to _ending_ it, once and for all...but they can't know, not really. Maybe one day, when they have kids of their own....

John's fingers ache, and he looks down. He hadn't been aware that he'd clenched his hand into a fist. His knuckles are bruised, the skin split across bone, and for the life of him he can't remember how it happened. He has a sudden memory of watching Dean getting slammed against a wall, choking on his own blood, pleading for his father to stop...and then John is watching his own hand shake through eyes blurred with tears. He clenches his fist even tighter and forces himself under control. He won't be any use if he can't even hold the damn gun steady.

"You're gonna hate me for this." The words come without him meaning to say anything, but once he starts he can't stop them. "And I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for...more than I can say." His voice cracks, and he swallows hard around the lump in his throat. "I hope you'll understand one day. Maybe I'm making a bad call. If I am, it won't be the first. But it's what I've gotta do, son, and...well...."

His voice dies away. Sam will be back any minute with the supplies he need, and he can't afford to be caught in a wash of sentimentality. The demon will be able to smell weakness on him. He knows - somehow he knows, down to the depths of his bones - that the Colt won't be enough for it.

He has an ace up his sleeve, but the demon still controls the hand. John knows there's something much greater that he'd be willing to trade for his son's life, but he knows the demon knows it too. It's layers on fucking layers, and he's so goddamned tired. For all that he hopes he's seeing three moves in advance, the demon is seeing ten. But he's made up his mind and it's too late to change it. This is his only option. It's _Dean's_ only option. Now he just has to let the game play itself out and hope it will be enough.

His knees crack as he stands up, and he lets himself take a long look at his son. Dean looks so small underneath all the medical equipment, pale and bruised and about five years old. And if John lets himself press a kiss to his older son's forehead for the first time since he was a child...well, he can't really be blamed for it.

It's time for this to end. One last job, one last deal, one that will probably damn him - but at least he'll go out fighting. He'll go to Hell willingly so his sons will never have to go in his place.

 


End file.
